


luck and fate will ruin us

by Cerian



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerian/pseuds/Cerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Half of everything is luck." Eames tells him, one night when they’re high on a successful job and too much whiskey, cigarette dangling from his mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	luck and fate will ruin us

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response for a prompt at the kinkmeme. Also, I haven't mentioned this on my other works, but English is not my first-language, but my third. So, please, be understanding about errors here and there, they happen to all of us. The title was previously in French: la chance et le destin va nous ruiner, but I like the English version better.

"Half of everything is luck." Eames tells him, one night when they’re high on a successful job and too much whiskey, cigarette dangling from his mouth.

They’re standing on the balcony, overlooking the golden city of spires, traffic lights illuminating the sky. It’s almost morning, it won’t be long before they flicker out.

"And the other half?" Arthur asks curiously.

"Fate.’’

 

 

 

The sharp line of his throat, the razor edge of his jaw, the impenetrable look in his eyes, the long and lean fingers, the arch of a Cupid shaped mouth. The Windsor knot and sliver cufflinks.

 _Fate,_ Eames decides the first time he meets Arthur.

 

 

 

There’s a job, in Zagreb, and a _quick give me kiss_ that leaves Arthur hopeful until it comes crashing down, disappointment and anger heavy in his chest.

They don’t ever talk about what happened.

 

 

 

There’s other jobs as well.

 

 

 

One in Tokyo that left a blood taste in their mouths even after they woke up, Eames quiet humming as he patched up Arthur’s shoulder, where the skin was ripped from a knife slash.

 

 

 

There was one in Berlin, where Arthur found himself smiling back at Eames, even though he can’t remember why now. Probably because of the way Eames smiled at him, demanding Arthur do the same, the man has a great gift of making people do things they shouldn’t do. Arthur should know.

 

 

 

 

 

In Hong Kong, Eames told him something one night when they were both teetering the line between buzzed and drunk, something important Arthur thinks, but can’t remember because all he remembers is the warmth in the crook of Eames neck, giving him butterfly kisses that Eames didn't notice, the way he brought Eames face closer to his, soundly kissing his full lips, the way Eames looked at him afterwards that had him murmur something of an apology.

 

 

 

 

There’s also Rio De Janeiro, Florence, Barcelona, San Francisco, Moscow, Cairo, Mombasa, Stockholm, and New York. There’s all of them that leaves Arthur breathless and half-mad because there's this _intangible thing_ between him and Eames, shown in the sound of hesitation whenever they’re near each other.

 

Shown in the way Arthur's heart flutters each time he hears Eames name, or feels the brush of his fingertips, voice purring endearments into his ear.

 

Arthur knows he could make it all tangible. Make it all visible in the only the words he needs to say. Knows he can guide them out of this grey zone, shadows flickering in their sight _(of what could be, could have been, what can be still)_ knows he can, and yet he doesn't.

 

 

 

 

Then there’s Inception.  
  


Yeah, with a capital _I_ and everything, because _its Inception_ and _God knows_ Arthur would never said yes, but there’s Mal, lingering like a bruise on his heart, that just won’t fade, and the tears in James eyes last Christmas when he tried to explain why Daddy wasn’t here when he was.

 

 

 

 _Luck,_ Eames decides, the weight of the gun heavy in  his hand, muscles aching and tried.

There’s blood on his shoes, blood in his mouth, and there’s the subtle quiver of his fingers, and all he can think is _fucking luck._

He wakes up, sees that the others on the plane stir up as well, and _yeah, fucking luck still._

 

 

 

There’s a fleeting thought _of now or never_ , _and maybe luck_ and the way he always feels too cocky after a successful job, that makes Arthur grab Eames luggage and say  
  
‘’Have dinner with me’’.

There’s too much wine, too much anticipation and too much _everything_ that makes Arthur lean up and kiss him.

On Eames behalf, it’s too much desire and want and need _and oh fuck is this happening_ that makes him kiss back.

In the morning, it’s too much cowardice and too much fear that makes Arthur leave, no traces left behind.

 

 

 

There’s a job, again in Paris, and it all crashes down. Burns up right in their faces, and Arthur has no idea, no fucking idea how, but all he knows is that it incinerates against touch when he’s trying to salvage the remains, but it’s too late, too late because Eames out of the door and regret sits heavy in his chest, _you’re one who fucking left me_ ringing in his ear.

 

 

 

 

Arthur doesn’t go to work for the next two weeks. Cancels all that he has lined up. He sits at home, and reads and reads and reads until the lines blur together, and the stories mix and all he can think _is why the fuck does everyone else have a happy ending_ , and that thought disturbs him so much he spends the following days cleaning his apartment, which was in a dire need to anyway.

He checks up on Eames. Just once.

Checks up on him just once, until he does it again and again and again and he still can’t find him.

_Where did you go?_

 

 

He visits LA, and Phillipa and James throw themselves at him, demanding gifts, which he easily gives – a tea cup set and a football – and Dom smiles at him, the haunted air about him gone, instead lies a family man, a man at peace.

 _Wish I had that too,_ Arthur thinks and stays a few days, basking in the Californian sun, and good company and the kids delight, and he promise to return soon, _with more gifts, yes, of course James._

 

 

At home, he does not check upon Eames for two hours straight and another thrity-six minutes before he slams the remote down, his own troubles eating him too much to pay attention to the ones of the Upper East Siders.

He calls Ariadne.

''Eames missing'' Arthur hears himself say.

 _How long has it been now,_ he wonders.

''We need to find him '' is Ariadne’s instant reply.

''We need to? What makes you think he wants to be found?'' He asks, and it's funny really, because that was his first thought too when he finally decided not to be in denial anymore.

''Arthur?'' Ariadne says, concern in her tone reaching over to him, makes him feel like an asshole.

 

 

 

 

After the Alojz job, the trail goes cold.

 

Arthur's only reliable resource is the rumours, and that is everything but reliable. _Job gone bad,_ people say, _they took him down._

_Crossed by his own team,_ others insist, _stabbed while he was under._

 

''He's not dead'' Ariadne says matter of factly.

 

''How can we know?'' Arthur asks her.

 

''Because he's Eames. He can't, he _won't_ die.''

 

Ariadne’s eyes are large and black, lashes clotted together by mascara. It does not hide the worry in her look, though.

 

 

 

 

A week goes by.

Nothing.

 

 

 

''Too late, manager said he's already moved on'' Ariadne says, sunglasses perched on her nose, the motel door swinging back to place behind her, soft brown locks tossed away from her shoulders by the wind.

 

_(There's an ache in Arthur body these days, an ache that's settled deep in his bones, one he can't name and doesn't know how to get rid of.)_

 

''Just got to keep looking, yeah?'' Arthur says, fingers drumming against his thigh.

 

 

 

 

 

Three weeks go by.

 

Nothing.

 

 

 

 

He grips the tickets, feels it curl under his hand.

 

 _Eames please Eames please stop, I beg you,_ Arthur prays, _I’m tired, I'm so tired, just let me find you, please Eames._

_Final Call for Flight KVGQ54 Istanbul,_ the signs blinks and his hand trembles in the hold of Ariadne’s hand.

 

''Come'' she says, leading the way.

 

''Don't worry, we're there, we're almost there, Arthur.''

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another week.

 

Still nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

‘’You can’t lose faith,’’ Ariadne tells him kindly.

 

It makes him snap, makes him yell ''That’s it, we’re done. We’re not going to do this anymore.’’

 

''Why not?'' She asks, tiny hands curled into shaking fits, dark eyes searching his face.

 

''Because I'm the reason he's missing in the first place.''

 

 

 

 

 

 

They take a stop in Ankara, and stay for three days.

 

Still nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Riga, Ariadne goes outside to study some of the architecture, and Arthur’s knees give out under him and he falls on the bathroom floor, back against hideous green titles.

 

 _I'm sorry,_ Arthur closes his eyes and thinks, _Eames please I'm so sorry, forgive me Eames,_ he slides a fist into his mouth, strangles any noise that might come out.

 

 _I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,_ the words repeat themselves over and over and over again in his head, the only thing he has left to cling to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wakes up in the dead of the night, and doesn't remember anything, where he is or how he got here, and he turns around, arms reaching for the comforting warmth of Eames solid body, and finds his fingers twisting in cold white sheets, and remembers he’s in Luxembourg, and he’s here cause rumours says Eames took a job here, and yes, he’s alone, and he still will be if he doesn’t find him soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

‘’Arthur’’ Ariadne says in New York, ‘’Arthur, what did you do to him?’’

 

Arthur smiles, a grimace that feels painful on his face and all he remembers is the way it all burned, _Do you think I want you? Arthur yells, do you think that I love you?_

_It that what you thought, Eames? He asks, and looks Eames expectantly. I'm sorry, but you sorely misunderstood, Arthur says, matter of factly. He turns his voice mocking and harsh, you're nothing more than a casual fuck, Eames  and nearly flinches the same way Eames does._

_You're nothing to me, Arthur finishes, and watches Eames back as he retreats, hears the soft clicking noise as the door shuts still._

 

What didn’t I do, that’s the question, he wants to say, but his throat aches in a way that has nothing to do with the cold, and he remains silent.

 

 

 

 

They move onwards, the road long and beckoning, radio blasting music – _I think I've might have inhaled you, I feel you in my bloodstream._

 

 

 

Arthur runs a hand through his hair and then his face, hand itching from the stubble. He looks outside the window, and it rains, fat drops sliding down, leaving small unimportant traces. He signs, and feels too old for his own body. Looks at his hands and expects to see something else than the green of his veins running over his smooth pale skin.

 

(He expects Eames to show up)

 

It's Ariadne that knocks at his doors, and he closes his eyes to not let her see the disappointment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He sends Ariadne home, despite her protests. Tells her to go home, and stop worrying about him, and that he’ll continue on his own.

He moves onward, all of his suits reeking of motel rooms and airplanes, and a quiet, subtle desperation, and he feels a cutting ache where his heart used to be.

 

 

 

He takes a look at his fingers, and says ‘’one last try’’, and books a flight ticket to London, where Eames is, supposedly. Arthur can only hope, and lately that’s been growing thinner and thinner.

 

 

 

‘’I found you,’’  Arthur says, the only thing he can say.

‘’Good job,’’  Eames tone is dry, loaded with something Arthur cannot decipher.

‘’Eames,’’  he puts all that he has into that one word, into his name, prays he’ll understand.

Eames eyes flicker towards him, pale and blue, like the sky after heavy rain.

‘’Arthur,’’ he says quietly, and Arthur feels his chest constrict.

 

 

 

 

Arthur keeps murmuring _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ in between desperate kisses, hands shaking and knees ready to give out until Eames steadies him, and there’s something in his look that makes Arthur heart stop, something that _says do it again and this time you won’t ever find me,_ and all Arthur can think is _lesson learned_ and keeps murmuring apologies into Eames mouth.

 

 

 

 

‘’We won’t be luck.’’

He’s laying on his back on Eames bed, Eames himself has his head on Arthur’s chest, fingers drawing punctilious circles into the skin of his stomach.

Eames doesn’t say anything, and Arthur continues, ‘’We won’t be fate either.’’

He can feel Eames stop with his fingers for a split second, before he quickly resumes.

‘’What are we then?’’

‘’Us.’’ Arthur says simply, ‘’Us because we want too, not because we’re lucky and not because fate decided to intervene. But because _we chose to_. And that’s better, right? ‘Cause fate can change and luck can run out, but if you make a decision yourself, it’s more likely you’ll stick with it, for the long run.’’

He can feel Eames smile into his chest, hand sliding over to cup his cheek, kissing him soundly, more teeth than lips because he’s still smiling, and Arthur smiles back, because there’s this lightness in his heart that he hasn’t felt for so long, and it’s wonderful, the way it feels, and all he keeps thinking is that he won’t ever leave.

Eames must have seen it in him, because he kisses him again and says ‘’Good.’’


End file.
